


In Commemoration of the End of the Fifth Blight

by AimeeApproves



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:04:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimeeApproves/pseuds/AimeeApproves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A funny little man comes to the Royal Palace bearing a gift for King Alistair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Commemoration of the End of the Fifth Blight

“A gift,” said the man with a flourish. “From Her Radiance, the Empress Celene of House Valmont, First of her name, Protector of the Blessed Nation of Orlais. A close, personal friend, as well as esteemed benefactor.”

Alistair smirked despite himself. Since becoming King of Ferelden, he’d met many a ridiculous little man. Alfredo Ambrosio, as he’d been introduced, was, quite possibly, the most absurd of them all. From brightly colored and aggressively patterned silk ensemble to facial hair that had been fastidiously groomed into a vaguely phallic shape, he certainly looked the part of the acclaimed Orleasian artist. His thick accent, with all the trills and inflexion of an Antivan-born balladeer, was completely bogus. A raven to Leliana confirmed that man before him was, in fact, born Alfred Boyle somewhere in the Free Marches. Just another a sad, silly fraud playing his part as best as he can.

“… thought the bastard king,” said the bastard king before he could catch himself. “Oh! I mean – yes, the statue. It’s…”

This was the first time Alistair had actually looked at the statue. It was of a woman wearing a fearsome express on her face and little else. A sword pointed toward the heavens in triumph from an extended arm. The other hand idly resting atop a standing shield, which, conveniently, allowed her loose flowing shift to oh-so casually reveal a perfectly pert breast. Her pose was equal parts looming and lewd.

“Ah. Speechless, I see,” began Ambrosio. “Quite my intent, Your Highness. I call it ‘The Virtuous Hero of Ferelden, Slayer of the Archdemon and Ender of the Fifth Blight Upon Man’.”

You could visibly see the moment Ambrosio’s words clicked with what Alistair saw before him, his smirk slowly contorting into a grimace.

“The– Ah– Yes, I see that now.”

“When I unveiled it to Her Radiance at court, it caused quite the stir,” he continued. “I daresay no fewer than fifteen nobles offered me gold, furs, and jewels – a sum many times greater than that of my humble commission – for the chance to add this very piece to their private collections. One even offered me a night of pleasure with his wife, a woman of great beauty and renown!”

Despite its creator’s faults and indulgences, the sculpture itself was technically well executed. And the sentiment behind the gift, a celebration of the ending of the Blight and Alistair’s ascension to the throne, was indeed genuine. But try as he may, Alistair could not look upon it and see The Hero – _his Hero_ – in it at all.

“‘…Non,’ I said. ‘Tant pis – that’s ‘too bad’ in Orlesian, Your Highness – this is for the humble people of Blessed Nation of Ferelden in honor of the most magnanimous Alistair Therein’s ascension as her King and Protector and the end of Fifth Blight upon her Lands – and no amount of money can persuade me otherwise!’”

Amelia, who – though fierce and fearless – was tempered with a wry sense of humor, a quick comeback, and lightness of being. Amelia, who – with nothing but a junior Grey Warden and an immense sense of duty – built the army that crushed the darkspawn horde. Amelia, who – despite the tragedy and uncertainty in her life – found a place in her heart for Alistair. She’s the rose that grew from chaos, not this.

“It is made of the purest marble in all of Thedas, and lovingly shaped into what you witness before you with these two modest hands. Indeed, the very moment you were proclaimed king, Her Radiance sought me out to commission this piece. And since that moment, I have toiled. Sweat, tears, even blood met their fate on the floor of my lowly workshop in pursuit of its perfection. Carved in the very image of the Blessed Andraste Herself, Praise be Her Na–”

“I owe my life to that woman,” said Alistair softly, halting Ambrosio’s self-indulgent prattling. “As do my people. You know, she was to be my wife. ‘The Queen and Hero of Ferelden.’ A better ‘better half’ than I deserve.”

The artist regarded Alistair with a mix of curiosity and empathy. The King remained transfixed by the statue. The far away look on his face teetered on the edge of maudlin and euphoric.

Finally, he broke, “Ah, but Fate has its own plans, I suppose. When the time came, she sacrificed herself to slay the archdemon. So that I may live to rule and rebuild. And remember – always remember. Maker bless her sacrifice, but damn her for leaving me here alone.”

After a moment of silent contemplation, Alistair turned toward the castle.

“It is a beautiful work, my good sir, but a poor likeness of the woman I loved. Still love. Will love until my last breath.”


End file.
